


Parallax

by Crystalshard



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Blood, Gabriel Falls, Gabriel is a dick, Gen, M/M, Redemption, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Torture, crowley rises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 17:50:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalshard/pseuds/Crystalshard
Summary: God's ways are ineffable, but She rather likes this angel and demon duo who prevented the Apocalypse. So She gives Crowley the choice to Rise back to Heaven. Taking that offer, however, leads to more trouble than anyone (except possibly God) ever expected.





	Parallax

The miracle occurred on an ordinary Thursday. 

Heaven and Hell had been keeping their promises; neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had been bothered by their respective Head Offices since the debacle with the bodyswap and the failed executions. There had been picnics and confessions, visits to Adam and Warlock, dinners at the Ritz, days at the bookshop and nights at Crowley's flat. All in all, the angel and the demon were fairly content with their newfound freedom. 

So, of course, something had to ruin it. 

Aziraphale was humming to himself as he shelved a newly acquired first edition of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_, running a possessive fingertip down its spine. Crowley was comfortably curled up in snake form on top of a series of terrible translations of _The Divine Comedy_, flicking his tail lazily at the angel whenever Aziraphale came into range. While the bookshop was technically open, there had been no customers in the last three hours thanks to the rain that had been falling most of the day. Londoners might pride themselves on ignoring the weather, but this downpour was too heavy for anyone to be out window-shopping. 

And then the locks shot across on the doors and windows, and a bright blue-white glow came from under the circular rug in the middle of Aziraphale's shop. 

Crowley froze mid-flick as the angel looked around wildly. "Hide!" Aziraphale whispered frantically, even as he went to rescue the rug from being burned up by the portal. There was a series of thuds behind Aziraphale as he hauled the rug away, but that didn't matter - bookshelves could be fixed later, but Crowley couldn't. 

Something coalesced in the space over the chalk circle. It wasn't the face of the Metatron, or that of any angel with which Aziraphale was familiar, or even a face at all. It was a figure made of light and shadow, wingless and faceless, and its voice was that of the Metatron overlaid with another. That other voice was joyful and true and holy, and it was Hers. 

"Aziraphale," They said, and the shock of hearing Her voice for the first time since Eden nearly staggered the Principality. "My beloved child. The one who loves humans as well as he does Me, who holds to my command more truly than any other child of Heaven." 

"Lord," Aziraphale managed as he dropped to his knees with an ungraceful thud. 

"Crowley," They continued. "Come, be beside Aziraphale." 

It had been six thousand years since Crowley answered to Her, and yet there was no hesitation in the human footsteps that walked towards the circle. Crowley folded down beside Aziraphale, managing it substantially more gracefully than the angel had, and Aziraphale glanced sideways to see Crowley's face glowing in the Holy Light. 

"Lord," Crowley murmured, and perhaps only Aziraphale would have recognised the hesitance, the caution in that neutrally-delivered word. 

Perhaps. 

"Crowley, you have chosen My creations over your fallen kin. Alone among demons, you love - and you are loved - without reservation." 

Crowley swallowed, his long neck flexing as if he really wanted a tasty dormouse right about then, and he reached out blindly with his right hand to hold Aziraphale's left. Aziraphale returned the grip as comfortingly as he knew how. "Yes, Lord," Crowley managed. 

"You have both earned My favour, and I shall give you both a choice. Crowley, would you accept my gift and Rise? Would you return to your brothers and sisters in Heaven?" 

It took a minute or two for Crowley to get his voice to work, and Aziraphale kept his mouth shut as his oldest friend wrestled with the decision. Heaven was little better than Hell, and they both knew it - Crowley would be leaving behind a known danger, one that had promised to leave him alone, for an unknown one that hadn't. Being a demon was familiar, was something Crowley was used to, something he was good at. And yet . . . to have Her mercy offered unasked, when Crowley had said to Aziraphale's face that he was unforgivable? 

There were tears on Crowley's face, shining like diamonds in the light of Her presence, when he finally nodded. "Yes," Crowley choked out. "Yes. I miss you, Mother." 

Aziraphale had the feeling that those last four words had slipped out without Crowley's conscious intent, but the thought was overwhelmed by Their next words. 

"Aziraphale, would you give up part of your grace to give Crowley his wish?" Their voice, tempered as it was with the Metatron's, didn't actually shake the very atoms of Aziraphale's being. It still felt like being inside a thunderstorm. 

"Yes." Aziraphale's answer was immediate. "If Crowley wants to be an angel again, then I would fall and call it even." 

Crowley's hand clenched around Aziraphale's and his mouth formed the anguished words _Angel, no._

Their voice was warm when They spoke again. "Do not fear to fall, Aziraphale. That you love my children and the pleasures of the world I have created is a joy to Me, not a sin." 

Aziraphale relaxed, and then realised he was shaking. "Oh - oh, well, that's a relief," he said, suddenly needing the support of Crowley's grip. 

"It is agreed," They announced. "Walk in love, My children." 

And then the glow faded, reshaped, and became the face of the Metatron. When he spoke, it was the same fussy voice that Aziraphale remembered. 

"Well, there you have it," the Metatron said, sounding a little dazed. "I'm afraid I've never done this process before, but the Lord left me the instructions, so clearly it can be done. Ah. Let's see. Stand up, please." 

Still holding hands, the angel and the soon-to-be-former demon got to their feet. 

"Yes, yes - ah, here we go. Aziraphale, I'll need to swap a little of your heavenly grace for a touch of Crowley's infernal power." The Metatron's eyes flicked between them. "Hmmm. Hold still. And Crowley, you may want to let go, I can't guarantee what form you'll end up in." 

Looking slightly alarmed, Crowley withdrew reluctant fingers from Aziraphale's. Aziraphale was so busy looking at Crowley that he barely felt it when the pain started. 

And then he screamed. 

He barely noticed the jerk of Crowley stepping towards him, or the Metatron's command of, "Hold still!" Aziraphale was too consumed by the agony in his wings, which had burst into the material plane and in which six formerly snow-white feathers had begun to char black. 

Was this how Crowley had felt, when he'd fallen? Was this how it was for your wings to be set on fire, but multiplied a dozen - a hundred - times if it was every feather? How could any of the Fallen have endured it? 

Aziraphale gulped great lungfuls of air, conscious of nothing - not the Metatron, not his bookshop, not even Crowley - except how it burned. 

And then it stopped. 

Aziraphale panted for a few more seconds, feathers ruffling in agitation, until he lifted his eyes and smiled weakly at Crowley. "Well. I think I may understand a great deal more about you now, my dear." 

Crowley made a loose gesture in the direction of Aziraphale's wings. "They're all . . . patterned now. Looks quite good, really," he assured Aziraphale. 

Seeing one's own wings wasn't easy, but Aziraphale managed to wrap one around himself to examine his new look. One primary, one secondary, and one covert now matched Crowley's wings in a precise triangular pattern. A tentative touch proved that while it may have felt like each burned feather was crispier than a chicken left too long in the oven, they had kept the cloud-softness of the feathers around them. 

Something shimmered around the burned quills, and Aziraphale realised that he could feel the grace departing from the black feathers on both wings. It rose, gathered . . . and darted straight for the demon beside him. The grace swirled around Crowley, its shimmer obscuring his body and exploding into a triumphal glory of light and music that blinded even Aziraphale for a moment. 

When Aziraphale could see again, Crowley lay next to him, familiar as ever in the jet-and-ruby shape of the Serpent of Eden. 

"Did - did it not work?" Aziraphale asked the Metatron, afraid to hear the answer but needing to know. 

"Patience, Aziraphale," the Metatron said distractedly. 

Crowley-the-snake shuddered all over, and his scales started . . . peeling. His snout emerged first, no longer black but a pale cream, and then his head followed. His eyes, as ever, were the serpentine slitted yellow he'd worn for at least six thousand years. 

Aziraphale barely dared to breathe as Crowley wriggled out of his old skin. Where there had been black, there was cream-white; where there had been red was angels-blood gold. And, etched into the scales of his narrow back, were six narrow black stripes in the same positions as Aziraphale's newly demonic feathers. 

Crowley rested for a moment, panting much as Aziraphale had, and then he transformed back to human shape. His dearly familiar face and body were the same as they had ever been as a demon, his hair still red, and - 

"Crowley - your eyes," Aziraphale said, dumbfounded. 

"What about my eyes?" Crowley asked warily. 

"They're - they're _human_." 

Crowley absently miracled up a hand mirror, staring into it as he saw what Aziraphale already had. Round pupils surrounded by warm brown irises, no hint of serpent anywhere in their depths. 

"Oh," Crowley said, and he began to shake. 

"Right, well, lovely to have assisted in the Ascension and Redemption of a former demon, I must be going," the Metatron said hurriedly. "Archangels to inform, Word of God to pass on, and all that. Er - Aziraphale, sorry about the Armageddon business. Bit of ineffable ineffability going on there. Yes. Goodbye." 

The Metatron and the blue light disappeared with a twang not unlike someone plucking a metal guitar string, and Aziraphale and the newly angelic Crowley were left on their own. 

Aziraphale barely had time to get to Crowley before the ex-demon collapsed into his arms. 

* * * 

After the breakdown and the sobbing fit and the stunned wonder of, "I can feel them, angel, I can feel the Host again, and I - I didn't know how empty that felt until it came back," Crowley calmed down enough to investigate his new heavenly status more carefully. The snake sigil he bore on his face, while still present, had turned as golden as his snake underbelly. Careful experimentation had proved that he could still shift into serpent form at will, with the familiar yellow eyes he'd had as a demon, but those narrow pupils vanished once he switched back to his human body. And either God or the Metatron had a sense of humour, because the silver snake belt buckle that Crowley liked to wear had also turned gold. 

They'd left him his black clothes, though. Whether that was an oversight or more proof of Her sense of humour was a question that neither of them really wanted the answer to. 

Aziraphale was about to propose that they start in on a bottle of wine (or five, or six) when a lightning crack stabbed down outside the shop, leaving behind the faint smell of ozone and the staggering aura of an Archangel. 

"Oh dear, I do hope that isn't Gabriel," said Aziraphale, as he shifted as much in front of Crowley as he could manage while still remaining next to him on the couch. 

The lock on the front door clicked open politely as the Archangel put their hand on it and pushed. A tall figure entered, as severe and sharp as the blade of a sword, hair piled up onto her head in a way that was reminiscent of a helmet. And she was wearing a smile that Aziraphale hadn't seen since the War of Heaven. 

"Michael," Crowley croaked. "Lovely to see you again." He made as if to stand, only for Aziraphale to pull him back down again. Angel or demon, Crowley had no need to stand for an Archangel. 

"Crowley," Michael said, as if testing the name on her tongue. "The Metatron told us that - that you had been Redeemed." 

In mute explanation, Crowley's mostly-white wings burst forth from his shoulders. They echoed Aziraphale's in the placement of six black feathers, a mark of his Fall that would never quite leave him. He lifted his eyes to Michael's, holding her gaze even as the fingers of one hand fiddled with his now-unnecessary sunglasses. 

The golden scars on Michael's cheeks crinkled in a grin. "Welcome back, angel." 

"Thank you?" Crowley said, blinking. "Er. What do I do now? Do I have to return to Heaven?"

Michael stared at them as if she couldn't imagine anyone _not_ wanting to return to Heaven. "That's . . . well. You may remain assigned here on Earth, if you prefer, but you will need to go Upstairs to be officially re-entered on the Rolls of Heaven." A half-smile twitched at her lips. "Frankly, I'd prefer it if you stayed down here. It took me a thousand years to properly reassign angels after the last shakeup." 

"Oh." Crowley blinked as if his eyelids had six thousand years to catch up on, and those brown eyes seemed to be staring light-years away. 

Aziraphale slid his fingers between Crowley's, Her approval giving him courage in the face of an Archangel. His smile took on an edge he'd last used in Hell. "That's quite a turn-around in attitude, Michael, for someone who tried to kill Crowley not so long ago."

Michael had the basic courtesy to wince at Aziraphale's words. She was a warrior, not an administrator, unsuited for the grey murk of bureaucracy. "The Metatron has spoken to us. The news is all over Heaven that one of our lost brothers has Risen, and . . . well, some of us have been wondering if this would happen ever since you survived your trial." 

Crowley's eyes might be unfamiliar, but the look in them was very familiar indeed to Aziraphale. "Have you." 

Michael's eyes closed for a brief moment, as if she were looking inside herself for strength. "I have. I can't pretend to understand Her ways, but She must want us to know that Heaven . . . should look in a different direction. There will be changes, and we need your insight. Both of you." 

Without looking, Aziraphale reached out a hand and gently pressed Crowley's open mouth shut with a soft finger. "I trust you will guarantee us safe passage? After my last, ah, _unexpected visit_, I hope you understand that we're both a little wary of Heaven's ways." 

"You have my word," Michael said immediately. "Neither of you will come to harm if I can prevent it, and I will pass the word down that you are not to be touched." Her smile slipped back onto her face. "I must go soon, but before I do . . . may I have a hug?" 

This time, Crowley wasn't the only one gaping. His wings mantled in surprise, partially shielding Aziraphale, and then they folded back as he stood and approached the Archangel. 

Michael, as if sensing Crowley's uncertainty, stayed where she was with her arms loosely by her sides. A step, two, and then Crowley stepped into her embrace. Her arms came up to hold him, and Crowley returned the hug with a fervour Aziraphale hadn't expected. His wings wrapped around her and obscured them both for a moment, and when they settled back and vanished once more into the aether Aziraphale could see them both smiling. 

"Welcome home, child of God," Michael said warmly, kissing Crowley's cheek. "Come upstairs when you're ready. There are many angels who want to welcome you." 

* * * 

He didn't sink. 

Crowley's feet trod the liquid surface of the foyer as though it were solid tile, Aziraphale calmly walking alongside him as he had done for so long. But this time, they both stepped onto Heaven's escalator side by side, and Crowley blew out a long breath. "Well. If I'd ever needed proof . . ." 

Aziraphale smiled at him, that warm, private smile that Crowley had only ever seen aimed at him. "You have more faith than you believe, dear." 

"If I've got faith in anything, my angel, it's in you." 

"Oh, nonsense." But the corners of Aziraphale's mouth turned up a little more. 

The escalator went up much further than it seemed from below. To human sight - if any human had ever managed to pass though the doors - the steps rose no more than a floor or two. But, like a rollercoaster car climbing that first ascent, it kept going long after you'd think it should have already reached the top. Eventually, though, it brought the two angels into Heaven's enormous reception area. The processing for the humans was roped off to one side, like the difference between airport passport control for the masses and the fast lane for VIP passengers. 

There were only two angels in the queue before Aziraphale and Crowley, and they were waved through by the bored angel working the reception desk that day. Her eyes widened, however, when she saw the pair. "Oh! Aziraphale! I, uh, I didn't expect to see you again so soon! And that means - you must be -"

"Crowley. That's me," agreed the ex-demon. 

To his utter shock, she squealed in delight and hurried out from behind her desk, wrapping him up in a hug three times more enthusiastic than Michael's. Crowley gingerly patted her back, meeting Aziraphale's eyes in mild panic as his angel tried not to snicker. "Welcome back!" she said in Crowley's ear. "I'm so happy for you, and so pleased to meet you, I mean, God Herself deemed you worthy and I'm babbling, I'm so sorry, this is so unprofessional . . ." 

Crowley relaxed a little and briefly hugged her back. "Well, you can officially say you're the first angel to greet me in Heaven," he teased, pulling back a little. To his relief, she let him go. 

"Please, go straight through, we've been expecting you. Oh! Wait, Michael left a packet for you, it's got all your forms in and a map of where to go. Heaven's changed since you were last here - oh, I'm so sorry, I'm usually more tactful than this." Angels didn't need to blush, but she was doing so anyway. 

Crowley chuckled, his shoulders relaxing from the tension they'd been under since before he stepped onto the escalator. "It's fine. Thanks for the help, S - sweetheart." He accepted the envelope, mentally comparing it to Hell's paperwork and deciding that Heaven's was significantly lighter. 

Aziraphale, whose smile had filtered into the indulgently fond one he was willing to use in public, walked beside him as they entered the angel-only area of Heaven. "Salariel seemed rather glad to see you," he commented quietly. 

"She was working reception the day I took your place in the Hellfire," Crowley said, just as quietly. "I wished her a lovely day when I left. She probably heard all the gossip about _your_ survival later."

"Noted." 

It took them twice as long to get to the room allocated for Crowley's re-entry interview as it should have. Angels that Crowley didn't remember, ones whom Aziraphale only knew vaguely, insisted on welcoming him back and hugging him in the halls. In the end, Aziraphale took them on a detour that would avoid the main halls.

Halfway there, Crowley stopped by a window, arrested by the sight. "Oh, angel," he breathed. "That's beautiful." 

Aziraphale joined him, staring out at the statue and the profuse greenery around it. "It's the memorial garden for the Great War," he said quietly. "It's so that none of us forget what happened when angel turns against angel. The statue's supposed to be of Raphael, weeping for the lost and the dead. They say no-one's seen him since the War." 

Crowley studied the kneeling statue, the marble tears running down the huge face and the sphere-tipped staff fallen at its knees. "It's a good likeness," he said, mostly to himself.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, but refrained from asking questions. "The names of the angels who died in the War are written on the plinth under the statue. I can take you there after you've sorted out the paperwork, if you want." 

"I'd like that, angel," Crowley said, turning a wry smile to Aziraphale. He wondered if Aziraphale saw too much in his eyes - Crowley still wasn't used to walking around without the comforting shield of his sunglasses. 

"Right!" Aziraphale said, perhaps a shade too heartily. "Let's get you back on the books, shall we?" 

* * *

All in all, the paperwork was much less fraught than Crowley had feared. He filled out a quick form, choosing to keep the name Crowley instead of taking (or retaking) a more angelic appellation. There was a brief interview with a pair of Dominions, which was less, "What have you done in the last six thousand years?" and more, "We'll just write that down as 'being a demon', where would you like to be assigned? Earth? Excellent, that's easy enough to do. Fingerprint here, please." And then he watched as the name 'Crowley' wrote itself in elegant gold ink onto the Great Scroll that held the names of all the angels of Heaven. 

And then he was free. 

Aziraphale had waited outside the interview room for him, and he brightened as he spotted Crowley. "Ah! All done, then?" 

"All done, angel," Crowley assured him, daring to reach out and take Aziraphale's hand. 

Aziraphale glanced down, looked back at Crowley with surprised hazel eyes, and then beamed fit to outshine Heaven's own light. "To the memorial garden, my dear?" 

"Yes. Let's go see this garden." 

* * *

The plants in the memorial garden, aided by angelic miracle, were fit to rival the plants Crowley had back in his flat in London. Ignoring the statue, Crowley wandered off among the leaves, touching one or two as he passed and soaking up the peace and solemnity of the place. Was this how humans felt when they entered a church? The last time Crowley had been in one, he'd been too distracted by Nazis and the burn of consecrated ground to worry about peace and awe. 

A flash of red caught his eye, and Crowley pushed aside a branch to see it better. It was a rose of a kind he'd never seen on Earth, thorns blunted and petals that looked closer to snakeskin than the usual velvet smoothness. "Aziraphale, have you seen this? Do you think they'd let me take a cutting back down to Earth?"

There was no answer. 

Most of the time, Crowley wouldn't have been worried. He knew how distracted his angel could be when presented with something that took up all of his considerable attention. A new book, or perhaps a rare bottle of wine, or a particularly delicious morsel of food. But none of these were up here in Heaven. 

In the vague hope that Aziraphale was simply lost in reading the names of the dead, Crowley ran to the statue. No angel on this side. No angel on the other side, either, and Crowley felt a dull thud of terror that he hadn't felt since the bookshop had burned. "Aziraphale!" he screamed, uncaring if anyone could hear him. "Aziraphale, where are you?" 

"Crowley?" came a faint call. 

Crowley raced for the exit nearest to where the sound was coming from. He was going so fast that he nearly ran into an angel who bore the Rod of Asclepius symbol on their robes. 

"Crowley, the angel said again, their relief nearly tangible. "I would welcome you back properly, but we don't have time. I saw Gabriel carrying Aziraphale towards his office." 

_"Carrying?"_ Crowley demanded. 

The angel nodded. "Over his shoulder, unconscious. Would you like me to come with you?" 

"No," Crowley said, his mind racing. "No, she promised that . . . Michael. Go find Michael. That symbol, you're a healer, aren't you? You have the rank to interrupt her. Tell her what's happening. I have an angel to go rescue." 

"Good luck!" the angel said, but Crowley was already running. Either angelic snake-hips were more stable than the demonic kind, or his worry about Aziraphale had lent him speed, but Crowley made it to Gabriel's office with only two wrong turns. Even after six thousand years, the Archangels still hadn't given up their astonishing views of Earth's most dramatic architecture, and each of them had their own office just off the Great Hall where a demon had once cast Hellfire on sacred ground. 

Gabriel's door was closed, but it had the kind of inset glass panel that let the boss keep an eye on the workers. Gabriel had presumably copied it from somewhere that actually did have an open-plan office, since there was nothing to see from this angle except the currently empty Great Hall. 

Crowley glanced through the glass into the office. Dimensions were things that happened to mortals, so he wasn't quite sure how big the room was, but it was big enough for a chair, a desk, another chair that held a bound and gagged Aziraphale in place at the edge of a large round rug, and a column of fire. 

Hellfire. 

Crowley shoved the door open and reached for Aziraphale's bonds, only to hear a deep chuckle behind him. Powerful hands grabbed his arms and pulled Crowley's hands painfully behind him, blessed rope wrapping tightly around his wrists and thoroughly immobilising him. A kick to the back of his knees sent Crowley tumbling ungracefully to the ground. Cheek pressed against the floor, Crowley twisted his head around to see his captor. 

"I went back through the Earth observation files," Gabriel said conversationally as he locked the door and pulled down the blinds that covered the window set into it. "You've made quite a show of 'rescuing' the Principality, haven't you? Angel gets in trouble, and here comes the demon to save him." 

Gabriel's face generally carried an air of vague contempt, but there was nothing vague about it now. "I don't know how you fooled everyone, but I'll find out. In the meantime, there's an easy way of showing everyone that you're still a demon." He nodded casually at the flames. 

Crowley didn't need to turn to feel the heat of it licking against him, and he could feel the hate and pain it carried. He hadn't cared, as a demon, but his newly angelic self sensed it like the choking smog of London before the Clean Air Act. "You're insane," Crowley told Gabriel, hearing his own voice shake. "I'm an angel now, with Her own forgiveness on my wings. It'll destroy me." 

"In that case, either way, I win," Gabriel said, a smug little smile on his face. "You don't belong in Heaven, Crowley. I'm going to send you back to Hell, and Beelzebub has far more interesting methods at zir disposal to chastise you than this little bit of hellfire zie gave me." 

Crowley didn't doubt it, knew a few of them intimately. None of them were anything that he ever wanted to know again. 

Gabriel reached down and hauled Crowley to his feet like a toy. And then, without hesitation, he shoved Crowley into the flames. Crowley heard screaming, and thought for a moment that it must be himself, in the agony that would persist for those bare few seconds before he was obliterated. 

And then he realised that he didn't feel any pain, and that it was Aziraphale's muffled cry of horror he'd heard. 

Bewildered, Crowley looked down at himself. Still there, still intact, not crumbling away under the onslaught of extinction. He almost asked Gabriel if he was sure that this was hellfire, except that Crowley knew it was. There was no other angel in Heaven as experienced with sensing it as he was. 

With a rustle and a snap, Crowley's wings opened. White, soft, angelic, with half a dozen charcoal feathers.

For the first time in six thousand years, Crowley offered Her a mute prayer of thanks for Her unexpected gift. In his distraction, he didn't react quite quickly enough to Gabriel's fingers darting forward and hauling him out of the fire by one wing. Crowley muffled a whimper of pain as that big hand crushed some of his coverts. 

Gabriel paused, and that terrible smile from when he'd told 'Aziraphale' to _shut up and die already_ made a reappearance. "Interesting," the Archangel said slowly. "There's still a touch of Hell in you, is there? If I can't burn your wings, then I suppose I'll have to do this the hard way. You know what it means when an angel can't fly?" 

Still bound, in the grip of a being vastly stronger than himself, Crowley closed his eyes in sudden exhaustion. "They fall," he whispered. 

"That's right. And the faster you Fall, the less pain I'll have to inflict on you." 

Though his gag, Aziraphale shouted in horrified protest. 

* * *

There was something uniquely horrifying about plucking an angel's feathers. 

Hell had refined the technique over centuries, but they'd only had demons to practice on. Which, Crowley was coming to find, was only half as painful as having his angelic pinions pulled out one by one. 

Gabriel had tied him to a chair, sat backwards for ease of access. Crowley had tried to tuck his wings away, then tried to shift to serpent form, but Gabriel's will held him exactly as he was. A mere angel simply didn't have the power to defy something an Archangel had set their mind to. At least Gabriel had slid a cursed iron plate over the hellfire circle, smothering the flame in the only way that worked. 

Gabriel had started with Crowley's primaries. They lay scattered around his feet, soft snow marked with the gold of angelic blood where Gabriel had been none too careful in extracting them. The empty sockets ached, the initial stab of pain simmering down into a burn that not even hellfire could match. That pain was nothing, however, compared to the look in Aziraphale's eyes. Gabriel had positioned them so that they could look at each other, giving Aziraphale a front-row seat to the sickening show. 

Crowley felt the tug of Gabriel's grip around one of his secondaries, and gritted his teeth. The yank tore a howl from him, followed by a gasp at a sudden snapping agony. Gabriel had broken one of his blood feathers, and Crowley was conscious of the slow drip that fell to the floor and sapped his strength with it. 

"All you have to do is Fall, Crowley," Gabriel said calmly, as if it was something entirely reasonable. "The pain will stop once you finish burning. I'll even promise to leave the traitorous Principality alone with his precious material objects." 

Aziraphale, tears soaking into the cloth that silenced him, made a muffled pleading noise from behind the snow-white fabric. Gabriel walked over, his hands smeared in gold, and pulled the gag down. "You had something to say, Principality?" Gabriel asked in tones of saccharine sweetness. 

Aziraphale swallowed, then ignored Gabriel entirely as he fixed his eyes on Crowley's. "Crowley, if you need to Fall, do it. I'll pull you out of Hell myself if I have to, and it doesn't matter to me whether you're a demon or an angel." 

Crowley, holding his angel's gaze, smiled back as best he could. "I believe you, angel," he whispered, unable to muster the energy for anything louder. "But She redeemed me for a reason, and I won't give up Her gift just because someone doesn't like it." 

Gabriel snarled, and a knife appeared in his hands. This was no ordinary steel or bronze implement, but an angel blade of compressed starlight that had been forged from the very first glow of cosmic light. Its edge was almost infinitely narrow, and Crowley barely felt it as Gabriel sliced open his bicep. 

What he did feel was the wetness on his skin as more blood gathered on his skin and ran down to enlarge the puddle that had already formed under the chair. Crowley shivered, suddenly cold despite Heaven's pervasive warmth, and he let his head hang down over the back of the chair. Maybe Michael had decided not to come. Or maybe she just wasn't able to get through the wards on Gabriel's office, given that he could technically be overridden only by the Metatron or God Herself. 

There was a pause, then the blade licked across Crowley's thigh. 

Crowley blinked languidly. Sleep beckoned, even as his angel screamed, "Gabriel, no!" and he felt the first touch of sharpened starlight at the base of one wing. 

And then there was a cracking noise, and Crowley lifted his head just in time to see Gabriel's office door split in two. 

In the doorway, bristling with a fury that Crowley had only seen once before, stood an angel. Or rather, an Archangel, wearing a face that Crowley had lately seen on a grieving statue. 

"Gabriel!" thundered Raphael, Holy Light shining in his golden eyes. "What are you doing to my apprentice?" 

Gabriel lifted the starfire blade from Crowley's wing, and stared at it as if he'd never seen it before. "I - I . . ." 

Raphael took two steps forward, then struck Gabriel in the temple with his staff. Gabriel went down like a poleaxed ox, the knife slipping from loose fingers as he went. Raphael took no more notice of him than he did of the ground he strode over, the Archangel snapping his fingers absently as he passed Aziraphale. The angel's bonds fell away as Michael and Uriel crowded in after Raphael, both of them armed and seemingly ready to commit mayhem. 

"Stand down," Raphael ordered absently, and the pair lowered their weapons. The fire of Michael's sword flickered out, and the horror in her eyes was reflected in Uriel's, who gripped her axe as if it was the only real thing in a world falling apart. 

A second snap of Raphael's fingers, and Crowley's holy bonds fell away as if they'd been made of wet paper. The bleeding angel didn't move as Raphael eased him to the floor, his head lolling back onto the Archangel's shoulder and his brown eyes blinking up at the being who held him. 

"Master?" Crowley murmured, his brow furrowing in confusion. Hadn't Aziraphale said that Raphael had left Heaven after the war? 

"Nachashael," Raphael said, the exasperated fondness of his tone an unexpected familiarity. "Always finding trouble, whether it's yours or that of another." 

Crowley huffed out a weak breath, his eyes beginning to slide closed. There was a thump nearby, and he opened his eyes a slit to see Aziraphale kneeling beside him. 

"Angel," Crowley tried to say, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "You'll get your trousers dirty." 

Aziraphale's laugh turned into a sob as it escaped his mouth. "As if I could care about my clothes when you're hurt this badly," he scolded, eyes bright and damp. Crowley's eyes must have closed again, because the next words he heard were aimed at his Master. "Please, Raphael. It's said that you're a healer. Can you heal Crowley?" 

"I would do no less for my wayward apprentice," said Raphael, his voice harder with determination than Crowley had ever heard it. "But I will require your help." 

"Whatever you need," Aziraphale vowed. 

Strength, pure white and blinding and warm, flowed into Crowley. Most of it had the flavour of Raphael, starstuff and light and the knowledge of how to bind atom with atom and give it life, but the rest - _oh_. It was Aziraphale, it had to be, red wine and old books and a thousand, thousand more layers that made up his angel, all bound together with a kind of vast, soaring love that had its core in loving Crowley. 

Crowley's own being reached back, offering his foundation-deep love for Aziraphale in turn, offering every bright and dark and whole and broken piece that made up _him_.

They had never said the words. They'd never needed to. 

Crowley returned slowly to the anchor of his corporeal form, which had been made whole while he hadn't been paying attention. He suspected that had been Raphael's intention all along. 

Raphael grinned down at Crowley as his eyes opened again. "There's my serpent. Never do that again," he admonished, then pulled Crowley into a hug that put Salariel's enthusiasm to shame. 

Crowley hugged back willingly. "No more getting kidnapped and tortured by Archangels. Got it," he agreed. A thought struck him, and he pulled away to stare at his former Master. "Where were you, anyway?" 

Raphael's eyes softened the way Aziraphale's had, and for a moment the Archangel bore a marked resemblance to his own statue. "I was out among the universe, looking after the stars you helped me to build. I couldn't stay in a Heaven that let you fall, Nachashael. Your Rising called me back, but light-years take time to cross, even for me."

Crowley shrugged. "Well, you know how it is. You hang out with the wrong people, then bam, unexpected dive into boiling sulphur. Oh, and it's Crowley now, not Nachashael." 

"Crowley," Raphael said, as if tasting the word on his tongue. "I suppose I can adapt, now that you have returned." 

Crowley swallowed. There was a price for everything, Hell had taught him that over and over, and if this was his then he'd pay it. "I take it that you'll want me to return to your side, Master? After all, it's not the Rod of Asclepius without your favourite snake wrapped around it." 

Raphael's eyes flickered away from Crowley. "I think that if I tried, apprentice mine, I'd have to face the wrath of your Principality. And I am not certain I would win if we had to fight." Raphael smiled crookedly, and Crowley was sharply reminded of why they'd got along so well before his Fall. "No. Go home to your Principality, wherever that is for you. My staff has been without a serpent for six millennia, it will hold for a few more thousand years. Perhaps I'll ask Her to create a new apprentice. I hear that the name Nachashael is currently unused." 

Crowley laughed at that. "Don't you dare," he said firmly. "Find them another name." 

"I shall. And you, my former apprentice, have more important things to focus on than your previous Master." 

Crowley was shoved ungracefully off Raphael's shoulder. He turned to see a blur of white pouncing on him, and he barely opened his arms in time. Enclosed in a soft embrace, Crowley found himself being snuggled ferociously, and he was quite content for Aziraphale to do that indefinitely as long as he could snuggle back. His poor angel's patience had clearly been hanging by a thread while Crowley had worked things out with Raphael. And speaking of Raphael - he had told Crowley to go home, and here Crowley was already. That was easy. 

Crowley could hear Raphael chivvying Michael, Uriel, and the other onlookers away from Gabriel's office. A quick glace showed that the still-unconscious Gabriel was being dragged unceremoniously out of the broken door by Raphael, and Crowley spared a grim smile at how things had turned around. 

Someone must have sneaked in a quick miracle while Crowley has being healed, because every golden stain had vanished from floor and clothes and bodies. Or - well, not every stain. The lines where Gabriel had cut his celestial flesh open held golden scars, the war wounds of an angel and Her reminder that they must never forget what it was to fight one of their own kind. Aziraphale had a similar scar on his thigh, albeit far more comprehensive than Crowley's new marking. Crowley could feel Aziraphale touching his new scars, petting his wings, ensuring that Crowley was back in one piece. Crowley would have cheerfully stayed there for the next century, or however long it took to reassure his angel that he was intact. 

Unfortunately, Crowley and Aziraphale were not left in peace for more than a minute. 

**"Gather!"** boomed the Metatron, his voice echoing through the headquarters of Heaven and out into the infinite green fields where those souls good enough to pass through the gates could rest for eternity. **"Gather, angels, for two of our own must be Judged!"**

Crowley settled back onto his heels and exchanged a glance with Aziraphale, the two reluctantly releasing each other. "I don't remember them doing this when they tried to kill _you_." 

"No, I don't believe they did," Aziraphale said, rising awkwardly to his feet. "Then again, I think you may have friends in high places." 

Crowley smiled as he climbed off his knees and tucked his fully feathered wings away. Just enough of a bastard to be worth loving, indeed. 

The angels must have gathered fast. As Crowley and Aziraphale walked out of the office, they could see that the gathered Host nearly filled the unreal dimensions of the Great Hall. 

"How do we get through?" Aziraphale asked quietly. 

About to ask, _Do we want to?_ Crowley's attention was caught as the angel nearest to them turned and saw the pair. The angel blanched, then hissed something urgent into the ear of the being they were standing next to. 

Like the Red Sea in front of a particularly persistent prophet, the angels parted, leaving a corridor wide enough for the two to walk side by side. Walk they did, past angels and lesser archangels, past Thrones and Cherubim and Seraphim, until they reached the tableau in the centre of the room. 

Up stage centre, on a low podium than nonetheless put his head above all the others, stood the Metatron in his rare physical form. To his right, beside the podium, stood Raphael holding his staff. 

Stage left and stage right, Michael and Uriel stood over Gabriel and Sandalphon. Michael's sword was blazing brighter than either Aziraphale or Crowley had ever seen it, and Uriel's axe gleamed with divine wrath. Both Archangels looked entirely prepared to use their holy weapons on angels that they had worked with for six thousand years. 

The Metatron inclined his head towards Aziraphale and Crowley, then lifted his voice so that every angel could hear him. 

"Hear the sins of Gabriel, Archangel of the Lord. He has defied the wishes of God, who commanded that the angel Crowley be returned to Her grace. He has caused pain, not for a lesson of mortals but to two of Her beloved angels. He has attempted to destroy the very angel who has Risen back to Heaven, for no reason but that he is unable to accept any choice opposing his own. And in doing so, he has attempted to usurp the place which is rightfully that of our Lord. Not since Lucifer has an Archangel betrayed Heaven, and She has decreed that Gabriel's punishment will match that which he tried to force on another. An angel who has no love left in him can no longer be an angel. Thus, if any here will willingly cast Gabriel down, he shall Fall." 

Crowley's jaw dropped at the pronouncement. Gabriel, fall? The first fallen angel in six thousand years, and She would cast down one of Her Archangels in favour of a former demon? A former demon who was, even as an angel, of the lowest order? 

"Crowley." The Metatron had dropped his voice to normal speaking levels. "You are the one Gabriel harmed the most. Do you choose to pronounce judgement on him?" 

Crowley swallowed, the words stuck in his throat. The memory of his own Fall was still as fresh in his mind as if it had happened yesterday, and he could remember that million light-year plunge. "No. I know how it feels to Fall, I wouldn't want to condemn anyone to that. Not even Gabriel." 

Gabriel looked up at that, amethyst eyes puzzled, as if he couldn't make sense of Crowley's reaction. 

The Metatron, however, nodded as if he had expected that response. "Aziraphale. Do you choose to pronounce judgement?" 

Just as he had done back in the bookshop, Aziraphale's fingers twined into Crowley's own. Holding his hand, in front of what was quite literally God and all Her angels. "No," Aziraphale said firmly. "Even angels can change. Perhaps Gabriel can be shown how to love again." 

The Metatron didn't smile, but there was a spark of respect in his eyes. "I can see why She favours you," was all he said. "Raphael?" 

"No," Raphael said evenly. "I am a healer, not an executioner." 

"Ah. Michael?" 

The Commander of the Heavenly Host, the Warrior of Heaven, the Archangel who had the strength to cast down Lucifer, nodded. "Yes," she said. 

The Metatron raised his voice. "Angels! The Archangel Michael has passed Judgement on Gabriel." 

"I condemn you, Gabriel," Michael said, her voice amplified just as the Metatron's was. "You are no longer an angel. I sentence you to Fall." 

Crowley had just enough time to see the stark terror in the former Archangel's eyes as the Pit yawned open beneath him. And then both the portal to Hell and Gabriel were gone, leaving behind only a whiff of brimstone. 

"Ouch," Crowley muttered, wincing in sympathetic memory. "Pool of boiling sulphur. That's nasty."

There was silence for a few seconds as every ethereal being in attendance processed what had just happened. Change came slowly to most immortal creatures, and here two massive upheavals had happened within the last few days. It would take some time before any of them could adjust to the new reality - although perhaps Crowley and Aziraphale would recover faster than most. 

It had certainly had an impact on Sandalphon. He was frozen, his usual cruel smirk utterly wiped from his face and replaced by horror. He didn't even seem to notice Uriel standing behind him with her axe. 

Politely, the Metatron cleared his throat. "Sandalphon. You, in full knowledge of Gabriel's intentions, misled and obstructed those who looked to aid Crowley and Aziraphale. She has decreed that you are no longer fit to be an Archangel. To give you time to think on your mistakes and provide some perspective, you shall be demoted to the lowest order of angels." 

Conflicting relief and shock rippled across Sandalphon's face. Crowley was not left to see it for long, however, as Uriel and Michael grabbed Sandalphon by the arms and towed him away. 

"Return to your tasks, angels," the Metatron ordered. "Return, and remember that even the Highest may fall." With no further ado, his proclamation complete, the Metatron vanished from sight. 

Raphael came forward as the angels dispersed, his mobile face solemn. "Crowley. Aziraphale. Will you two be all right?" 

Crowley rubbed his thumb over Aziraphale's knuckles, savouring the contact. "Oh, I think we'll be okay from this point on," he said, not needing to look to know that Aziraphale was giving him that soft, adoring look again. 

"Not now that we know you're still immune to Hellfire," Aziraphale added. "I doubt Holy Water would harm you, either." 

"You're probably both immune," Raphael said casually. "There's still a touch of the infernal in you both, it's the price of loving a demon well enough to be able to Raise him. What?" he asked as the two turned to stare at him. "I'm a healer, I know these things." 

"Oh," Aziraphale said weakly. "Well, I suppose that may come in handy." 

"I just hope it doesn't have to," Crowley said. "Mas- uh, Raphael, where will you be headed? Back to the stars?" 

Raphael shook his head, a wry smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "No, I think I'll stick around for a while. She's clearly going to be changing a few things around here, and they're a little short on Archangels right now. What do you think, Crowley, want a promotion?" 

"No!" Crowley said vehemently, recoiling from the very idea. "I'd be a terrible Archangel."

"Oh, I don't know, dear," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "I think you'd bring a new perspective to it." 

"No," Crowley repeated. "I'd rather be on Earth with my angel. Best thing you can do is leave us both alone." 

Crowley wasn't used to his renewed angelic powers yet, so for a moment he wasn't sure what he was feeling. And then he knew, because it was breathtakingly familiar. Love, from both his angel and from Raphael, a weightless wave of joy that nearly bowled him over. 

"Can't quite manage 'alone'," Raphael said with a shrug. "I may want to visit, after all. I have a few millennia of Earthly progress to catch up on with my favourite serpent and his partner." 

"We'd be glad to see you," Aziraphale assured the Archangel, and he turned to smile at Crowley. 

Vaguely, Crowley realised that he was giving off as much love as he was receiving, but right now? He was okay with that. 

* * * 

A nameless being crawled out of a steaming yellow lake. His once crisp grey suit was in tatters, his white wings scorched black in the fires of his Fall. His amethyst eyes, raging with Hellfire and hate, caught on a pair of red, clawed feet in front of him.

Slowly, painfully, those eyes scanned up a tall, red-skinned figure to a face crowned with horns. The face cracked open in a wicked grin. 

"Welcome, brother," said Satan. "I believe Beelzebub has been waiting to meet you." 

The figure at his feet pushed himself up onto burned hands and knees, and hissed. 

"Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me," said the demon who had once been named Lucifer. "You'll need a new name. I think we'll call you . . . Chalam."

**Author's Note:**

> In theory, using some rather mangled Ancient Hebrew, 'Nachashael' means 'serpent of God'. 'Chalam' means 'shame', or so says the dictionary I found.


End file.
